Darkness Rising: The Dark Angel Series: Book Two (6 page)

“She’s sent down the penthouse elevator. Just head left—it’s the last of five, in the separated section.”

“Thank you.” I followed his directions and found the appropriate elevator.

“A businessman,” Azriel said as the doors closed and the elevator whisked us silently upward.

I glanced at him. “What?”

“You wondered what the guard saw me as. I answered.”

“Why would a guard see you as a businessman?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps he has high expectations of death.”

I snorted softly. “
I
have high expectations of death, but he continually disappoints me.”

“Then don’t have expectations,” he said, either ignoring the jibe or not getting it. He was staring at the floor indicator like he’d never seen one before. “I speak with experience when I say it’s easier that way. And what I’ve never seen before is the type of magic that protects this elevator.”

I blinked. “It’s protected by magic?”

He nodded. “A fairly old spell, by the feel of it. And very powerful.”

I glanced at our chrome-and-glass surrounds but couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Then again, I wasn’t usually sensitive to magic, so that really wasn’t surprising. “What’s the difference between a new spell and an older one?”

He glanced at me. “The age of the practitioner?”

Laughter bubbled through me. “Oh my God, you just made a
joke!
I can’t believe it.”

“I merely told the truth.” But that twinkle was back in his eyes.

Was my reaper getting more human, or was I merely getting more used to him? And why was I even wondering that when the man was obviously following my thoughts? “Can you tell what it’s designed to do?”

He shrugged. “It’s some sort of protection spell. More than that, though, I can’t say.”

I frowned. “But if she’s got protection spells here, then she’s probably got them in her apartment, too. So how was she attacked?”

“Ask her. I am by no means an expert on magic.”

“Meaning there are Mijai who are?”

He nodded. “I am a simple warrior, but there are some who specialize in more specific areas.”

“There’s nothing simple about you, Azriel.”

“On the contrary,” he replied. “I work and I live. That is the existence of a reaper, and I am no different from any of my brethren.”

“What about playing? Loving? Having families, stuff like that?”

“I live in a family unit, if that is what you mean.”

I glanced at the floor indicator, suddenly wishing it would slow down. Azriel wasn’t usually this chatty when it came to himself, and I really wanted to make the most of it.

“Family unit as in mom, dad, and siblings, or family unit as in wife and kids?”

“We do not pair up in the manner that you do here.”

“Which doesn’t answer the actual question.”

His smile briefly touched the corners of his eyes. “Indeed, it does not.”

“In other words, mind my own business,” I said, mentally swatting at hormones dancing about in the lingering warmth of that smile, with little effect. “Which, I may point out, is not entirely fair, given you’ve got access to my life
and
my thoughts.”

“I agree, it isn’t fair. But for the moment, that is how it has to be.”

“Oh yeah, got to maintain the status quo,” I said, the mirth in my voice giving way to a deeper edge of annoyance. “The one where you know everything and I know nothing.”

The elevator slid to a smooth stop and the doors dinged open, revealing dark marble and warm, subtle lighting. Unlike most penthouse elevators that I’d seen, this one opened into a small foyer area rather than the apartment itself. Dark glass doors dominated the three walls, all of them closed.

“If I knew everything, I would not be here,” he said all too reasonably as he followed me out of the elevator.

“And if you told me everything you knew, then maybe you could get out of here sooner,” I bit back, stopping in the middle of the foyer and wondering what the hell I was supposed to do now.

“Knowing whether I have what you would term a mate has no bearing on this case or on what we seek to do.”

“I know.” No one appeared to be coming for us, and I was half tempted to just get back into the elevator.
It was only the knowledge that the high council wanted results or death that kept me standing there. “Forget I mentioned it.”

I could feel his gaze on my back—a weight that, oddly, seemed to demand that I turn around and look at him. I ignored the urge, listening intently. Somewhere in the silence of the rooms beyond, someone was moving. But whether they were actually coming to fetch us, I couldn’t tell.

“I do not,” Azriel said quietly.

Something inside me unclenched, and I finally looked over my shoulder and met his gaze.

“I am Mijai,” he continued. “It is not practical for us to consider a Caomh.”

I raised my eyebrows. “I gather
Caomh
means ‘mate’? And since when does practicality ever come into it?”

“Caomh is a whole lot more than merely a mate,” he said, his gaze moving past me. “A thrall comes.”

Surprise flitted through me—as much for the fact that I hadn’t sensed the approach as for the fact that Catherine Alston had created a long-lived servant. From what I understood, it was considered bad form for vampires to have thralls. But maybe Alston simply didn’t care. And maybe other vampires
did
have them, but they just hid their existence better.

The middle door opened. The man who stood there was brown-haired and brown-eyed, with a pleasant, open expression. He wasn’t a man who’d stand out in a crowd or linger in the mind, and he looked to be in his mid-twenties.

Except he
smelled
older than that.

Much older.

He was also armed. There was a slight bulge under his right arm, and if the prickly heat crawling across my skin was anything to go by, it was loaded with silver bullets.

“May I help you?” he said, his voice low and cultured.

“I’m Risa Jones. I have an appointment to see Catherine Alston.”

He nodded, but his gaze was on Azriel. “He may not enter.”

“He’s my partner.”

“He is death,” the thrall said. “And death shall go no farther than this foyer.”

“Azriel is not here to collect your mistress,” I said impatiently, at the same time wondering what the hell the thrall thought he could do to stop Azriel. “He’s here to help.”

The brown gaze met mine. “You’ll swear your life on this?”

“Yes.”

“Be aware that I will shoot you the minute I suspect ill intent from
either
of you.”

Oh, fucking great. A trigger-happy thrall was just what we needed right now. “As I said, we are here by request. Neither of us means your mistress any harm.”

He stepped to one side. “Proceed, then. It is the third door on the right.”

The hallway was wide but far from airy. Darkness lingered, and the air so thick with the scent of roses that it made my stomach twist.

Each door was lit solely by a small tea light. I wondered if Catherine had a thing against electrical lighting,
or whether it was done for effect. After all, most vamps weren’t beyond the occasional attempt to terrify their guests.

“I am not trying to terrify you, young woman.” The voice was rich, cultured, and almost plummy—the sort of voice that sounded as if it came from royal stock.

“That is because I
am
of royal stock,” she said, then added, almost impatiently, “Come inside where I can see you.”

I walked through the doorway. This room, like the hallway, had only a couple of candles providing light. But at least the overly sweet air stirred here, meaning either that there was an open window nearby or the air-conditioning was on.

Catherine Alston rose from her chaise lounge as we entered. She was a tall, thin woman with a regal nose, sharp brows, and black eyes, and she reminded me of a crow. It was an impression somewhat enhanced by her sweeping black dress with its long, almost wing-like sleeves.

“You are not what I expected, Risa Jones.” She held out her hand, forcing me to reciprocate. Her skin felt like old parchment. “From our would-be dictator’s description, I was waiting for someone far more … homely.”

Not being homely wouldn’t usually be considered an insult but, somehow, this woman made it so. “Two barbs in one sentence. That’s pretty impressive.”

Her grin was fierce and toothy. “And not afraid to voice an opinion. I like that. Why do you bring death into my presence?”

“He’s my insurance policy.”

“Ah. You do not trust me?”

“Not you, and certainly not Hunter.”

She laughed, but it held an edge that was not altogether sane. Concern flicked through me. If the attack had sent Pierre Boulanger mad, then it more than likely would affect Catherine Alston the same way. And the last thing I needed was an insane vampire—even if I had Azriel watching my back.

“I am
not
about to attack you,” Catherine snapped. She sat back on her chaise lounge again and crossed her legs elegantly. “It took a week for Pierre to be fully affected. I have six days left, and Hunter assures me you will have tracked this thing down by then.”

Her tone implied it was already too late for Pierre. Did that mean he was now dead? I very much suspected it. Neither council was likely to let a madman survive very long. “So tell me what happened.”

“If I knew that, you wouldn’t be here.”

I bit back a rush of irritation and wondered what the hell I’d done to deserve being surrounded by so many question-phobic people. “When did you realize you were also being attacked?”

“Yesterday evening, and I rang that dark-haired bitch straightaway. It took you long enough to get here.”

I ignored the impulse to point out I’d only just been told, and said, “So you woke up at dusk and then what?”

“I looked in the mirror and saw this, of course.” She waved a hand toward her face—a face that was still relatively free of wrinkles. And her dark hair had little in the way of gray.

“If you don’t mind me saying, I can’t actually see much of anything.”

“Well, of course not,” she said crisply. “Do you think I’m about to advertise the fact that I’m being attacked? Makeup and hair dye were invented for a reason, young woman.”

I guessed so. “Then how bad is the aging?”

“There are crow’s-feet and lines around my mouth, and my hair is salt and pepper. I can live with both, but I do not wish it to get any worse. You
will
stop it.”

It was imperiously said, and amusement played about my mouth. While I had no doubt that Alston was every bit as dangerous as Hunter, she didn’t emit anywhere near the same level of scary.

“Where did the attack take place?”

“In the bedroom, of course. Where else does one sleep away the tiresome daylight hours?”

“I shall check it out,” Azriel said, and winked out of existence.

“And where has your dark defender gone?” she said. Maybe she was a little hard of hearing, because Azriel hadn’t whispered. “If he steals anything, there will be hell to pay.”

“Reapers don’t steal,” I said patiently. “And he’s gone to see if your attacker has left any sort of scent trail in your bedroom.”

She harrumphed. “I’ll check, you know.”

“Check away,” I said, rather rashly, then added, as her gaze narrowed a little, “And nothing disturbed your sleep? You had no unusual dreams, felt nothing odd, have no strange marks or bruising on your body?”

“No. I did get Bryson to check when I realized what had happened, but neither of us could find anything.”

“Bryson being the armed fellow who is standing behind me?”

“No, that’s Ignatius. Bryson is my butler.”

Which was another word for “dresser, lover, and food source,” if her slight smile was anything to go by.

I cleared my throat, oddly sickened by the thought that this woman had spent centuries loving and feeding off her men. I mean, what sort of life was that for them?

“A good one,” she snapped, more angrily this time. “And mind your thoughts, young woman. It is possible to push me too far.”

I smothered my instinctive curse—if only because swearing wouldn’t actually get me anywhere—and said, “What about the magic that protects your elevator and apartment?”

Her surprise rippled through the air. “You felt that?”

“Azriel did, although he could not tell what sort of protection spell it was.”

“It is designed to guard against ill intent.”

“So why didn’t it work against whatever is responsible for these attacks?”

“Because it is flesh-sensitive. If what is attacking doesn’t wear flesh, then it will not stop them.”

Which didn’t really narrow the field all that much. We’d already guessed this thing wasn’t a flesh being—both Alston and Boulanger would have sensed such an approach. “Did you set the spell?”

“Do I look like a magic user, young woman?”